


feathered

by azirafelle



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Also a lil sexy, Fluff, Getting Together, It's about wings, M/M, Post-Canon, Purple Prose, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2020-05-01 23:01:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19187038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azirafelle/pseuds/azirafelle
Summary: Aziraphale is preening his wings. He offers to assist Crowley in the self-care of his occult appendages.





	feathered

 

Aziraphale believes that the caricatures applied to animals are generally inaccurate.

Take a rabbit, for example. Sure, it might be soft and delicate and skittish. But if you think that's all a rabbit is, then you've never really seen a rabbit. A rabbit is also persevering, and fast, and sharp of claw. It has a tail like a beacon on a black night and its ears are ever alert to the sounds of the earth breathing.

Take, for instance, a snake. A snake is cunning and silent, yes, but very many other things too. A snake in unfamiliar surroundings is cautious and clumsy, almost bumping its snubbed snout into new obstacles. A snake is not immune to bouts of comic petulance, refusing to eat for days on end when its pride is hurt. A snake is lazy and indulgent, laying in the sun, scales glinting seductively in the dappled light of a forest afternoon. A snake is almost soundless, and whatever secrets it shares with the soil are preciously guarded.

But a snake in a demon's body? That, that is altogether something different and so far beyond any assumption a human might make about that sort of creature. Aziraphale is observant, perhaps too observant when it comes to the serpent of the garden. Crowley's eyes are flawless and glittering, his emotions expressed on the surface of those golden orbs. His body retained the slim liquid nature of the snake, melting into any surface he rested upon, the sharp juts of his bones and the gentle curves of his taut skin beckoning sinful touch. Sinful touch that even the angel himself wasn't immune to the temptation of. And his tongue... Aziraphale knew it was wrong to think about that, but he caught his mind drifting to the wet, sloppy, dexterous suggestion of that long pink thing every time he saw it curl around an ice lolly, vivid with the juice and glistening.

\--

It's a Sunday afternoon, and Aziraphale is preening his wings, more out of habit than of vanity. It was a nice ritual of normalcy following the events of the past few days.

The angel was sitting on the sofa, one wing pulled around to the front where Aziraphale could reach most of the feathers. There was always some difficulty with the ones closest to his back. He had given up on those some time ago, choosing to simply will them into order. He just worked on the ones that weren't too difficult to reach, enjoying the familiarity of putting something right.

He heard the bell on the shop door and was preparing to mumble annoyance under his breath when a voice called out. The insult died on his lips and a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

"Angel?" The word was followed by the sound of striding steps and Aziraphale didn't bother to move.

"In here, Crowley." he called, listening as the steps came nearer. The angel looked up, hands busied with the unruly barbs of one long white feather.

Crowley stared at him for a second. He'd never seen Aziraphale doing this; come to think of it, he hadn't seen the angel's wings all that many times to begin with.

He tried to sound nonchalant, falling into an armchair opposite his friend. He motioned vaguely.

"You do... all that? On your own? Thought you'd just miracle it or something."

Aziraphale smiled a little, feeling a bit self-conscious. "Ah, well. Some of them. I do miracle the hard-to-reach bits. But it's nice. I like doing it."

Crowley hummed in acknowledgement, silent for a few moments. The angel continued at his task, under scrutiny behind the demon's glasses.

"Never thought of it much, myself. Don't use them a lot, anyways. You hungry?"

Aziraphale glanced up at his companion, ignoring the question. He knew well enough when the demon was trying to change the subject.

"You just kind of... ?" Aziraphale snapped his fingers, imitating the demon. "You just do that, and they're all right again?"

Crowley shrugged. "Nah. Just, you know. Ignore them. Been doing it for six thousand years, so. Apparently they're self-sufficient. Not entirely material, anyways. Don't see the point in taking care of something if you don't have to."

Aziraphale knew that was a lie. He could name half a dozen unnecessary things Crowley cared very much about, right now, off the top of his angelic head. He studied his own downy white wings for a moment before looking back up to Crowley.

"I could do them for you, if you like. You'd enjoy it, it's soothing." Nervousness choked Aziraphale's voice, but he hoped Crowley hadn't noticed.

The demon stood, manifesting his wings carefully so as not to ruin anything in his friend's shop. He sat back down in the armchair, draping his wings over the back. There was just enough room for Aziraphale to stand behind them without bumping into the bookcase against the wall.

"Have at it, angel," Crowley said, hoping he sounded indifferent. He didn't, not really, but Aziraphale couldn't quite place the emotion in the demon's voice.

Aziraphale dematerialized his own wings and walked around behind Crowley. He tutted softly. The demon's wings weren't in bad shape, per se, but the neglect showed. Aziraphale thought they were the most beautiful wings he'd ever seen anyways. The dark raven color picked up every shimmer of light in the room, reflecting it like an inky rainbow.

He started, hands trembling, at the smallest, most delicate feathers closest to Crowley's shoulder blades.

The sensation was electrifying to Crowley. If Aziraphale had been able to see the demon's eyes at the moment he buried his hands in his feathers, he would have seen that they'd fluttered and rolled back ever so slightly, somewhere between debauchery and bliss.

Aziraphale worked, silently, and Crowley tried not to moan. No one had ever touched his wings before, and now, the creature he worshipped was caressing them, preening them, caring for them. And it felt _wonderful_. What Crowley was feeling wasn't exactly arousal, not necessarily the way a human might feel it. He didn't expressly want to bed Aziraphale, though that wouldn't have been a bad idea. He wanted Aziraphale, form and essence, to know, to touch, to own and be owned by, in this eternity and the next. It was a strange feeling, but one he'd grown accustomed to over centuries of knowing the angel. Now, though, it was incredibly intense and the connection he felt to Aziraphale was almost unbearable.

He failed. The tips of the angel's fingers brushed, ever so slightly, over the bony flesh of his wing, exactly where it met his corporeal form.

" _Ohh -_ " Crowley shuddered, feeling for a second that his mind might explode and feeling incredibly ashamed in the next second.

Aziraphale stopped, pulling his hands away. "Sorry, I, ah -" The angel blushed violently. "Maybe I shouldn't have -"

"If you - if you stop, I'll - I'll. I don't know, _fuck_. Don't you dare stop, angel, I'm begging you -" And then he made a low, guttural sound, coming from somewhere deep inside, far deeper inside than his mortal voice.

The angel had done something bold. He had thrust his hands back into Crowley's wings with a passion that was both gentle and needy. He was no longer preening; he was massaging, pressing his fingers along the soft hot skin under the demon's feathers. Crowley's wings were shaking now, all of him was shaking, trembling, eager, overwhelmed. Whatever they had upstairs, this was paradise. Heaven be damned.

Aziraphale dipped in, his face close to Crowley's neck. He whispered, softly, "Is it alright if I... may I... "

" _Yes_."

Aziraphale let his eyes close, and he kissed Crowley's neck, lightly, like a prayer, tentative, holding back but so, so needy.

When he opened his eyes again, they were standing in his disused but quaintly-decorated bedroom. Crowley was shifting to face him, wings spread just enough to wrap around the angel and draw him in. Aziraphale wished the demon's glasses away and let himself be pushed onto the bed, covered in black feathers and gazing at the serpent of the garden with wanton adoration.

**Author's Note:**

> hey, my first work here! Comments and suggestions much appreciated; I would like to do more with these two lovely idiots soon <3


End file.
